Although maybe that was wishful thinking, I was hoping interview number two later on today would prove more successful in finding someone to help me out.
Chapter Three
Macey
The position at the diner had been a bust, already being filled the day before. And the maid position at the local motel had been a hard no for me when I caught the owner continuously eye-fucking me, not even caring if I caught him.
Finding a job wasn’t looking good. Although, I did have one interview left for the cook and housekeeping position at a home ranch outside town. It was a decent drive away, at least twenty minutes from the Falls View town square. I was hoping it proved more positive than these last two interviews I’d done. Because if not, I was shit out of luck and in real trouble.
But why I really hoped this interview was successful was because in the ad it had mentioned room and board available upon negotiation of the position. That would really solve a ton of my current problems.
Once out of town and nearing the address, I made a right onto the long gravel driveway of the property. There was a fence on either side of the double-lane private road, and as my Dodge Neon’s tires crunched along those pebbles, I practiced the interview in my head. I didn’t want to stumble over my words over the simplest questions.
I’d never been so nervous and desperate for a job before.
The driveway was long and straight, with the woods on either side of me. I could see a stable to my right, a chicken coop and run to my left. The cabin was up ahead, with a couple cars parked in the driveway. The closer I got to the cabin, I noticed another pin, one that held llamas or alpacas. I could never tell the difference.
I tightened my hold on the steering wheel, silently praying to whoever would listen that this interview would end on a positive note and I’d get the job. I pulled to a stop in front of the cabin, saw a dark, monstrous pick-up truck parked off to the side, and cut the engine.
I looked at the time on my phone and realized I was almost fifteen minutes early. Maybe that would throw points in my corner. Punctuality and all.
After grabbing my purse and the resume I printed off from the local library, I climbed out of the car and made my way toward the front door. I saw a pair of work boots sitting off to the side, straw and mud covering them. I brought my hand up to the door and gave three hard knocks with my knuckles on the wood framing the screen. It banged against the frame from the action.
And then I took a step back and waited. My heart felt like it was in my throat, and I heard my pulse beating rapidly in my ears.
I was about to knock on the door again when I heard heavy footsteps coming closer. I tightened my hand on the strap of my purse and swallowed, again saying another silent prayer to whoever was listening that I wouldn’t botch this up.
The interior of the house, as far as I could see through the screen door, was shadowed, but the person I saw moving closer was big, with broad shoulders and lean muscles. Definitely male. And when he stopped right in front of the screen and I got a good look at him, my pulse started beating for other reasons that had nothing to do with nerves or this interview.
He pushed the door open, and I took another step back, getting a good, unobstructed view of the man who would be interviewing me, I assumed.
He looked younger, maybe in his early thirties, with very dark hair cut close to his scalp and a trimmed beard that looked more like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. His eyes were equally dark, with onyx slashes for eyebrows, and he had a straight nose and full lips. I’d never examined a man so closely in my entire life. He lifted his arm and braced it on the frame of the door, keeping the screen open with his foot on the bottom.
He wore a pair of worn-in jeans, not tight like a lot of ranchers wore, but still fit enough that I could make out his muscular thighs and narrow waist. The white shirt he wore was tucked in, a little bit dirty, no doubt from working all day, and also not hiding how toned he was. I could see the lean muscle underneath the material and licked my lips, feeling my face heat, because I worried I was looking like some thirsty bitch right now.
He lifted his other hand and rubbed his eye, and just now, after I’d been checking him out, I realized he looked like he’d been sleeping. I noticed other things then, little things like his hair being slightly disheveled and the relaxed expression on his face.
“I’m Macey.”
He dropped his hand and looked at me, his dark eyebrows furrowing as if he were trying to figure out who I was.
“I have an interview for the ad in the paper?” I didn’t even know if he was the one interviewing me. Maybe not, since he acted like he didn’t know who I was.
And then I saw his expression change, as if a lightbulb turned on and he finally registered. He closed his eyes for a second and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said in a deep, gruff, and very masculine voice. “I laid down for a minute after I inhaled my sandwich, was expecting you, but I guess the sleep fog still had me.” He stepped aside and held the door open. “Please, come in.”
I gave him a small smile and stepped over the threshold.
“I swear I’m not this boneheaded.”
I looked over my shoulder just in time to see him face me then saw and heard the screen door close.
“We can go into the kitchen and sit at the table.”
I nodded, but he was already walking by me and leading the way.
I followed him inside his home. It was absolutely in need of some TLC and a good cleaning. That was for sure. Although the cabin was very rustic in its design, with open beams on the ceiling and hardwood flooring, the accents reminded me of another era. And the furniture looked like it had been around for decades.
There was random stuff placed everywhere. Boxes and some newspaper tied up with twine were on one side, and horse gear and work clothing, as if tossed aside and out of the way, were on another side of the room. Although his house was cluttered, it wasn’t downright filthy. But it definitely hadn’t been deep cleaned in… ever.
We stepped into the retro-style kitchen, which surprisingly was cleaner and less cluttered than what I’d seen so far. And my assumption was that this room wasn’t used as frequently. I knew from experience, when I lived with my father and from growing up on the ranch, they worked the majority of the time, and only if someone was in the kitchen cooking meals or cleaning the house did those things get done. More times than not, they just got quick things to eat. The thought of Dalton telling me about his bologna sandwich was all too familiar with how my father had been.
He walked over to the kitchen table, one that looked handmade, carved out of a thick slab of wood. It was gorgeous with detailing around the edges, a very cabin-esque feel to it. He pulled the chair out for me, and I sat down, giving him a thankful smile.
“Do you want something to drink? Unfortunately, all I have is water or some coffee that was made at the ass-crack of dawn this morning.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks.” I set my resume on the table and gently pushed it toward him. “I don’t have much experience from a business standpoint, but my dad owned the Spur Tex Ranch here in Falls View, and I used to do all the cooking and cleaning for him.”
He grabbed the resume and nodded. “Your dad was Wilbur Spur?” He lifted his head and looked me in the eyes.